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merlin_holidaysTitle: The Hunt
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vissy
Author:novemberlite
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 12,200
Warnings: knotting, rimming, rough sex
Summary: “Those Pendragons, they’re a different sort. Beastly, but clever. It’s said they’re drawn to magic--to power--and that’s how they find their... mate.”
Author's Notes: Thanks to B and M for their help and enthusiasm.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
They arrived two days before Beltane, and turned everything on its head.
The forest shook under their assault and began to bleed the colours of Camelot: red and gold everywhere Merlin went, laughter and the beat of weary hooves ringing in his ears. There were dozens of them, and they came armed and armored, setting up their tents and rousing their fires; fighting among themselves with swords and sticks and being so bloody loud, Merlin thought he’d go mad with it.
He said as much to his mother, curled up on his pallet and face buried in the pillow, trying to drown out the noise. “If they’re here to make peace, why’d they bring an army?”
Hunith didn’t look up from her work, grinding herbs with a steady hand. “You expected the Crown Prince to come alone?”
Merlin hadn’t expected them to come at all. He’d been hearing whispers for months--what little snippets of conversation the druids didn’t bother to censor in the presence of a servant and the juicier bits he picked up from eavesdropping--and they’d all carried an undercurrent of uncertainty. Uther Pendragon was a volatile man and couldn’t be trusted, but what this treaty would mean for the People was too great to ignore.
There hadn’t been blood shed in years but the threat of it hovered, and the People were tired of living like fugitives on their own land. Binding one of their own to the Crown meant more than freedom; it meant protection, and if for that they had to suffer Uther’s demands--if they had to suffer the Hunt--they would with a smile.
“They look like they’re going to war,” Merlin said, remembering glinting metal and the unsettled shuffle of horses. “Do you suppose they’re afraid of us?”
“No,” Hunith said, working the pestle in tense circles. “They’re not afraid. And there is no ‘us’. This is between Camelot and the People. We’re neither here nor there. It’s none of our concern, and you’d do well to keep away from all this.” She wiped her brow with the back of a hand and fixed Merlin with a knowing stare.
Merlin pulled a blanket over his head. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Yet,” Hunith said, and Merlin didn’t have to see the stern, disapproving set of her mouth to know it was there. “Keep busy, Merlin, and not with gossip. This is only a matter of days. Beltane will pass, these men will leave, and everything will go back to how it used to be.”
The sullen ache in his stomach disagreed. Merlin ignored it, rolled over, and tried to sleep.
---
“They’re animals,” someone was saying, voice thick with disgust, “and they stink like it, too.”
Laughter, high and feminine. “A bath would take care of that. Some of them are quite comely, you know. The Prince--”
“Oh, yes, tell us about the Prince. Nimueh’s dying to know--”
“Be quiet.”
“The Prince? He’s tall and strong and has a dog’s--” A muffled shriek, and then peals of laughter, interspersed with “don’t say it, don’t say it!” and “oh, Goddess, I can’t imagine--”
“You’re disgusting, the lot of you.”
“You’d best start getting used to it,” someone taunted. “You’ll have to do more than hear about it soon enough.”
“You’ll have to touch it, Ni-mu-eh,” came another voice, delighted. ”You’ll have to put it in your--”
“Merlin?”
Merlin jumped a clear foot into the air, hand clutching his chest and heart leaping into his throat. He nearly tripped over his own feet and into the tent, but caught himself in time and turned to see Freya watching him, eyebrows raised.
“Freya,” he sputtered. “I didn’t, um, I didn’t see you. I was just,” he waved a hand around and hoped she took it to mean anything other than, listening in because I was bored and curious.
“Eavesdropping,” Freya concluded, and Merlin slumped. She smiled and pulled him away from the tent. “Come on, they’ll have your head if they catch you. What was so interesting that you’d risk Nimueh’s wrath? You know she doesn’t like you.”
“She doesn’t like anyone,” Merlin said, glancing back at the tent. Nimueh was on her way to becoming a High Priestess, and easily the most proficient from her group. Merlin supposed she wasn’t arrogant so much as she was well-aware of her place in her world: head and shoulders above the rest of them.
“I won’t argue that,” Freya said, “but stay out of her way, just the same. She’s in a mood.”
“Because of the--ah, the Prince?”
Freya looked at him and Merlin looked back, the picture of nonchalance. “In part,” she said slowly. “What do you know about that, Merlin?”
“Beyond what I heard just now? Nothing.” He grinned sheepishly. “Won’t you tell me? That way I don’t have to go back and hover outside their tent, pretending to look busy.”
“You didn’t look busy,” Freya pointed out, “just very suspicious.”
Merlin threw his hands in the air. “Well, there you go. Help me, Freya. Save me from myself.”
“Your inability to mind your own business is going to get you into a lot of trouble one day,” she warned, but grasped his hand anyway, and led him away from the camp and deeper into the woods, where the trees grew touching each other, roots broad and tangled beneath their feet. It was the birth of summer, but the air was cool and damp under the cover of leaves. A stream gurgled nearby, one that would soon run dry, and they headed toward it instinctively, tripping each other through brush and thorn.
Freya didn’t speak until she’d found a dry place to perch, her small feet dangling in the stream and toes curling from the cold.
“I don’t know much,” she said, resting her chin in her hands, “only what Sophia’s told me, and you know how reliable she is. It’s just talk, but everyone’s talking. They say he’s going to choose her. Nimueh. For his bride.”
“But,” Merlin said, startled. “How do they know? The Hunt--”
“They’re saying it’s all been set up--that she’s told him what mask she’ll wear. That they’ll hold the Hunt for the sake of tradition, but he’s already decided who to wed.” Freya pulled her knees up to her chest. “I don’t believe it. She wasn’t at the procession--she doesn’t even know what he looks like. When would they have met? It doesn’t make sense.
“It’s more likely that he’ll just--know. Those Pendragons, they’re a different sort. Beastly,” Freya shuddered, “but clever. It’s said they’re drawn to magic--to power--and that’s how they find their... mate.” She looked over to him and wrinkled her nose. “Mate. Like animals.”
Freya flushed, and then laughed. “That’s how they do it, too. They tie, like dogs.” Merlin blanched and she laughed harder. “Merlin, the look on your face.”
“You’re making that up,” Merlin said sternly, but what he’d overheard was starting to make sense. He tried to picture it, and couldn’t; the tips of his ears were burning up and Freya was shaking her head, breathless from amusement.
“I swear,” she said, “he--the Prince--he’ll do it right then. Once he catches her.” She wiped at her eyes and gave him a wry look. “Now you know why Nimueh isn’t the happiest she’s ever been.”
Merlin felt a little queasy. “Does she have to? Doesn’t she get to choose?”
“Of course she does,” Freya said, surprised. “But there’s no question, really. Who wouldn’t want to be Queen?”
“Princess,” Merlin corrected, but Freya shook her head.
“Queen. Uther’s declining health must be the worst kept secret in the realm. That’s why they’ve come now--Uther is a bloody tyrant, but he wants his son to keep the higher ground.”
“They’re using us,” Merlin murmured. “They want to hold us over Cenred.”
“It was either be used by Camelot or be used by Escetia. The Elders--well, Aglain. He Saw something that helped him make a decision.”
Merlin leaned forward, eyes bright. He could loiter around the priestesses’ tents and warlocks’ quarters as much as he wanted, but there wasn’t any need for a serving boy to be present when the elders gathered. When it came to them, whatever he heard was hearsay’s hearsay, and the thought of this new, otherwise inaccessible insight made his stomach flip. “What?”
Freya shrugged. “No one knows. Not even Nimueh.”
He couldn’t keep the disappointment from showing on his face, and Freya shook her head at him fondly when he asked, “Nothing? Not even a rumour?”
“That is the rumour,” Freya said, wry. She got up and stretched before stepping off her rock. “Satisfy your blasted curiosity with that, because it’s all I know.”
Satisfaction, Merlin thought as he followed her back into the forest, was a ways off. Questions swirled in his mind like a storm: he’d seen the men from afar when they’d arrived, red capes and tired horses and all, but missed the Prince’s welcome. Merlin hadn’t cared--didn’t think there would be anything beyond his title to set him apart from the rest of Camelot’s men--but now, he wondered.
Freya had called him beastly, and the image Merlin’s mind conjured up was of a hulking, bearded man, with wild hair and large, coarse hands, more warlord than prince. Picturing him against Nimueh’s slight frame made Merlin shudder, his gut twisting in sympathy.
“Merlin!”
Freya’s call rang in the dense space between trees and jostled Merlin from his thoughts. He couldn’t see her; she’d kept moving while he loitered, and the edge of impatience in her voice told him she wasn’t about to slow down. The air was colder now, and the day was beginning to die. Merlin had kept her longer than he’d thought, and he was opening his mouth to reply when something--shifted.
He didn’t know how he knew to stop, and go still. It wasn’t something seen or heard, no shadow in the corner of his eye or the rustle of leaves, but a pull in the middle of his chest, a compulsion, a command that seemed to rise from the earth and dig into his bones. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, not by far, and he’d never been able to explain it--didn’t even know what to call it--but he knew better than to think he could ignore it. He halted with his foot braced against a fallen log and held his breath, waiting for whatever it was that wanted him here.
It took him a moment to realize he was staring right at it.
The stag was massive, even half hidden in the brush, and the antlers crowning his head were thick and long. He breathed easy, unimpressed by Merlin’s presence; blinked once slowly in his direction before bending to graze, nosing through the mulch on the forest floor. A ray of sunlight cut through the trees and fell like a target on his flank, and--target, Merlin thought, target, and he looked beyond the stag and had his heart rise up in his throat, eyes fixed for a horrified second on the glint of a crossbow.
“Don’t!”
His shout had everything lurching violently into motion. The stag reared, hooves kicking a spray of leaves and dirt into the air, and the crossbow fired with a sudden twang, burying an arrow inches away from Merlin’s foot. Man and beast clamoured, filling the copse with noise, and by the time Merlin could bring himself to move, the stag had vanished and in front of him stood a gaggle of men, looking as startled as he felt.
“What the fuck,” one snarled, “do you think you’re doing?”
All right, Merlin thought, perhaps less startled and more angry. He backed away on instinct and caught his foot against the log, flailed ineffectually and toppled. The earth was damp beneath his palms and the man looked even angrier from the ground, all broad, tense shoulders and scowling mouth.
“I should be asking you that,” Merlin managed, because even dressed as they were, in dark, dirty clothes, these were Camelot’s men, and they didn’t belong in the forest. “You can’t be here.” And then, because he couldn’t stop himself: “The Hunt isn’t until tomorrow.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, raking his eyes over Merlin and sounding anything but, “I didn’t realize this was your land. It’s just, you look so much like a serving boy, I became confused.”
Merlin flushed and pushed himself to his feet, wobbling only a little before he regained his balance. “It might not be my land, but it isn’t yours, either.”
“It will be soon enough,” someone said from the back, and the men snickered, their faces relaxing into sneers. Only the man in front seemed unamused, face dark and eyes boring right into Merlin’s. He shouldn’t have looked imposing now that Merlin wasn’t lying on the ground, but something about him had Merlin’s palms clammy and insides tied into knots. He had the look of a noble and the air of a fighter--a knight, then, but that didn’t mean he had any sort of hold over Merlin.
So he raised his chin and said: “That’s for tomorrow to decide. Today you’re guests of the People, and you’d best behave that way.”
“Boy--” came a snarl from the cluster of men, but the one who held Merlin’s gaze raised a hand and they fell silent, faces twisted with anger. Merlin didn’t care, barely noticed, attention fixed on the man--the knight--as he stepped forward, walked right up to Merlin until they were only inches apart. This close, Merlin could smell him, cloves and leather and sweat, the faint edge of metal and horse; could make out the furrow between his brows, the startling blue of his eyes. The knight’s nostrils flared as he took in a quick, sharp breath, and then he looked--speculative. Calculating.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice low, and it wasn’t a challenge, too curious to be a taunt. Merlin’s mouth went dry, the click of his throat audible when he swallowed.
“A servant,” Merlin said, because he was, and because the man couldn’t be asking him for his name. “You--you weren’t mistaken.”
The man frowned. “No,” he said, “you’re--what are you?” and Merlin reeled, because what did that mean? What did--
“Merlin! Merlin!”
Freya’s voice cut through the copse, loud and flustered. The man jerked back like he’d been burned, and Merlin took his chance and ran, leaving them to shout among themselves. He tripped through the forest, face burning and heart pounding, and found Freya not so far from where he’d stopped, hands on her hips and looking impatient.
“There you are,” she said as Merlin came up to her, and he nodded in breathless agreement. “Stop dawdling, would you, we still have work to--are you all right?” She frowned in concern. “You look flushed.”
“No,” Merlin said, and then, “yes, yes, I met--I saw a stag.”
Freya rolled her eyes, but her smile was pleased. “You’re already the luckiest person I know, getting into and out of trouble like you do. You don’t need any more.” She looked up at the darkening sky and sighed. “But if we tarry too long we’ll both be out of luck.”
The dying light of the sun made everything bright and hazy and too much; Merlin felt eager and weak and thrilled and frightened and all sorts of contradictory things. He shook his head free of stray thoughts and forced himself to look at Freya and see her instead of curious blue eyes.
“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry. Let’s go.”
They went.
---
He dreamt that night, in weak, disorienting pulses. He was in the forest, in the stream, underwater. Leaves crackled under his feet and smoke stung his eyes; there was water in his nose and mouth and it tasted deceptively sweet, like the skin of a berry before he crushed it with his teeth. Juice streaked down his chin, sour and sticky and red, and someone was licking him clean, tongue catching at the corner of his mouth. There were hands tangled in his hair and a body pressed against his own, tree at his back and palms scraping on bark, or teeth, someone’s mouth on his wrist, sucking bruises. Flushed red and purple and blue, blue eyes, the water still and quiet and deep, deeper, he sank.
Merlin woke up breathless and hard and trying to forget the man’s face.
He didn’t manage it, no matter how busy he got: running from one tent to the next, fetching this and delivering that, that curious look still caught in his mind. He was clumsier than usual, preoccupied and prone to drifting away, and he got cursed at by nearly everyone he ran into, even his mother.
“Merlin, please,” she said, more tired than angry, now. She’d yelled herself hoarse in the morning and seemed to lose more of her ire as the day wore on. “If you can’t be of use, stay out of the way.”
There was a streak of oil on her cheek and she smelled like almonds and exasperation. Merlin clasped his hands and rocked back on his heels, thrumming with nervous energy.
“I can help,” he insisted, because the last thing he wanted to do was sit around and think. It was madness outside: people bustling from one end of the encampment to the other, laden with food and drinks and wood for the bonfires they’d light at dusk. Everyone was anxious for the Hunt, waiting impatiently for the sun’s descent; even the ones who weren’t going to have any part in it couldn’t stop talking about it, all coarse, vulgar speculation and taunts that Merlin knew half sprang from a place of envy.
There wouldn’t be more than two dozen taking part, though coupled with Camelot’s men, that meant they’d run the forest down. The knights had little reason not to join in, and Merlin twitched at the thought, wondered if that man--if the knight from the forest--
“Merlin. You aren’t even listening.” Hunith’s mouth was pursed tight, and went tighter when Merlin blinked at her owlishly.
“No--what? I am. You want me to take that--” he gestured at the vial she gripped in her hand, “to--someone.”
She sighed and rubbed at her temples, looking harried. “Never mind. I’ll take it myself.”
“No, mum--” Merlin grabbed the vial and managed not to slosh anything out. “I can do it, I swear.”
He widened his eyes, earnest, until Hunith sighed again and said, “It’s for Nimueh. Go quickly--she needs to drink it now. And be careful, Merlin, you can’t imagine how important that is--”
“I will be,” Merlin said, when she started to look unsure about having him handle it. The vial was warm in his hand, and filled with a rich red liquid, thick and potent from the smell of it: almonds, again. “What is it?”
“None of your concern,” Hunith said sternly, snapping the sheets on his cot. “You’re to leave it in her tent and that’s all. Don’t poke around and for heaven’s sake, Merlin, don’t ask any questions.”
Merlin rolled his eyes and ducked outside. It wasn’t as if Nimueh would even notice his presence, much less answer any of his questions, but Hunith had been nurturing a wealth of paranoia for long enough that it was second nature. She wanted him safe, and that meant making him invisible--no matter how badly Merlin wanted to be seen. He weaved through the thinning crowd, fingers tight around the vial’s neck and trying not to remember how it’d felt in the forest, to have those eyes on him.
The powerful smell of incense coming from Nimueh’s tent made that easy enough. He coughed, then sneezed, eyes watering, as he pulled aside the flap and stepped inside, straight into thick clouds of smoke.
“Who is it?”
Merlin blinked his eyes clear at Nimueh’s sharp voice, and tried to hold his breath. “Me,” he choked out, and then realized that meant nothing to her. “Merlin, it’s Merlin.”
Nimueh hissed a spell and the smoke cleared, condensing into a tiny whirlwind and hovering over the palm of her hand. She closed her fist and it vanished. Merlin was left staring at her dark eyes and scowling, unpainted mouth. “What do you want?”
He fumbled with the vial, trying not to be obvious about looking around. He didn’t often get a chance to run errands for Nimueh--she had a maidservant who took care of that--and he didn’t know if he’d ever get another one. At first glance it didn’t look very different from the tents of the other druids; less parchment and more charms, perhaps, but sparser than he’d expected. There were jars lining the shelves and scattered about were the sort of artifacts Merlin would kill to get a proper look at: worn engravings and old staffs, rings and things that spit magic into the air. He could feel it collecting on his skin and shivered.
Nimueh made an impatient noise and he jerked, coming back to himself. “I’m, uh. I’m to give you this.”
She took the vial he handed her with barely concealed distaste, and put it on the desk behind her. It was already cluttered with things--herbs and powders and a chalice that was still blurting wisps of smoke, and something behind it that he couldn’t quite make out. He moved closer and Nimueh stepped to the side, blocking him with her body.
“Is that all?”
“Um,” Merlin stalled. “You’re supposed to drink that right away.” He stepped around her and closer to the desk, grabbing the vial and holding it up with what was hopefully an unassuming grin. “While it’s still warm,” he said, like he knew what he was talking about, and cut his eyes to the side. What he saw made him gape, and say, despite himself and all common sense: “That--is that the mask?”
He looked up, expecting to see Nimueh’s scowl, but her face was wiped clean of expression. “Yes,” she said. “Ugly, isn’t it?”
It was an old, blotchy red swatch of fabric with two crude, eye-shaped holes and a dirty string that tied one end to the other. Merlin didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this; Camelot was known for its opulence and craft, and this looked like it’d been made by an unskilled toddler. It looked like something Merlin would make.
“It’s...” he started, and struggled to find the right word. ‘Ugly’ wasn’t doing it enough justice.
The sound of Nimueh’s laugh startled him into looking up. She was smiling, and the hair on the back of Merlin’s neck prickled.
“Don’t be fooled,” she said, reaching around him to take it. “It changes once it’s worn.”
“Into what?”
“Whatever suits you best.” She shrugged, long fingers running along the frayed cloth. There was something speculative in the way she eyed him. “Yours would be a mouse. Perhaps a hare,” she said. “Always underfoot, but--harmless.”
Merlin flushed, but didn’t look away. “And yours?”
“A bird of prey.” Her smile didn’t falter as she held out the mask. “Let’s see it, then.”
It felt coarse against his skin, and covered his face from forehead to nose--left his mouth bare and smelled like something old and violent. Primal. The string cinched behind the back of his head and Nimueh began to speak, slick sounding words in a language Merlin ached to learn, voice edged with excitement. Her breath hitched partway through and something like shock lined her face, but Merlin was too busy feeling to care--there were tendrils of magic digging their way under his skin, into his bones, and a queer pressure behind his eyes that made them clench shut. He didn’t realize he was panting until Nimueh fell silent and his laboured breathing was all he could hear.
When he opened his eyes, he found her looking like she’d never seen him before.
“Well,” she said softly, “aren’t you full of surprises,” and turned him to face his reflection.
The first thing he saw was gold instead of blue. Panic clawed at his throat; his eyes only changed when he messed up and did magic, and he hadn’t--had he?--but he couldn’t force them back no matter how hard he tried. The markings on the rest of his face didn’t make any sense, these thick, bold lines that made him look alien and new. He blinked once, frantic, and it was as if the mirror cleared to let him see, and he saw--he saw--
“Dragon,” he said, hushed, “it’s a--” dragon, bright and fiercely scaled, and Merlin’s eyes didn’t look out of place at all. The mask was warm when he reached up to touch, buzzing like his skin was, and Merlin was riding out a shiver when the signal sounded, a horn blown loud and long.
He whirled to find Nimueh watching him.
“It’s time,” she said, and Merlin nodded, heart still beating too fast in his chest. They were beyond dusk now, and well into the night; he could hear the horn blow again, more urgent this time, and reached up to tug on the mask.
It didn’t budge.
“What--” he managed, and pulled at the edges, at the string, clawed at it, but it was like trying to peel off his skin, like it was in him. “It’s not coming off--Nimueh, it’s not--”
“Well, why would it? The Hunt’s only just begun.” She slipped into a robe, and pursed her lips at Merlin’s stricken face. “Did I forget to mention that? How careless of me. You wear the mask and you’re a part of it, Merlin. You’re in for a wild night.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Merlin said, heart lurching into his throat. “It’s yours, you’re meant to wear it--you’re going to be Queen!”
Nimueh hissed and pulled the hood over her head so Merlin could see nothing more than the bitter curve of her mouth. “I don’t need any man to rule,” she said, “much less a Pendragon.”
Merlin shook his head, fingers going still against the mask as he struggled to understand. You had a choice, he wanted to accuse, but the mutinous set of Nimueh’s jaw made him wonder if that was true. So he said, instead,
“Why me?”
“Because I like you, Merlin,” she said, dry. “And this way, we both win. I get out, and you--well, you get tupped by a knight.” Her mouth quirked. “Don’t worry, I hear they’re quite good at this kind of thing.”
“The Elders will be furious,” Merlin tried, panic squeezing his throat and cutting off his air. “This isn’t a game, it’s a--it’s a treaty. If you leave, you’ll never get to come back.”
Nimueh tilted her head back so he could see the glint of her eyes. “You have bigger things to worry about. Don’t think you can hole up in here; they’ll find you wherever you are.” She stepped close and gripped his arm with one hand, touched the mask with the other. “This is a little bit magic, you know.”
“Take it off,” Merlin whispered, and she shook her head.
“I can’t do that,” she said. “But I can give you some advice.”
Her eyes flashed gold and he felt the force of her magic hit him right in the chest, sending him flying through the air and landing outside, cold earth under his palms and all the breath knocked out of him. Nimueh stepped out and over him, heading for the fields beyond their camp, and when she looked back at him once, it was only to say,
“Run.”
---
He ran.
His first thought had been his mother: she’d be furious, but more than that, she’d be worried. He’d cut halfway through the camp and to her when someone caught him--a man in red, with the face of a grinning bear, who had grabbed Merlin’s arm for a split second before getting kicked between the legs. It was more panic and instinct than anything else, but the man’s mouth had twisted into a painful, betrayed o as he sank to the ground, and as Merlin had turned to run, he’d shouted, “If you don’t want to play, then bloody well get out of our way!”
Merlin winced and headed for the forest. If the mask was magic, then it would take magic to destroy it; what few spells Merlin had picked up from the druids would probably be useless, but he had to try. The dense cover of the forest would provide more protection than the campground, and if he could just get the bloody thing off, no one would have to know what mess he’d gotten himself into this time.
The forest should have been pitch black this time of night, but he found it lit up instead, with bonfires at a distance and little sparks circling the trees; enough to see, if not very well. There was a cacophony of noise: the squalling of angry birds and skittering of creatures across the forest floor, the heavy footfalls of men and rustling of robes.
A sudden, high-pitched scream.
He startled, and turned towards it, taking off on instinct and the irrepressible urge to help, but then there was laughter, and a woman’s voice, excited, between short grunts. As he neared he could make out words among the moans, though they weren’t ones he particularly wanted to hear: yes, and Gods, more-- and--
There was someone moving beyond the trees. No, more than one--two, three--too many to count, and they were coming closer, long-legged gait eating up the distance in a matter of seconds. They were all dressed in red, Camelot’s men, and tall of build; Merlin stayed long enough to see a serpent, a boar, a crow, their mouths twisted in identical sneers, before turning tail and running in the opposite direction.
They gave chase, but not for very long, falling back just as Merlin was starting to become short of breath. He supposed they were more interested in the ones for which this really was a game--the ones who’d make a show of slowing down and scream in delight when they were caught--instead of Merlin, who was running like his life depended on it. His feet were aching by the time he found a place to rest, and even then it wasn’t ideal: a clearing with a bonfire glowing hot in the center, sending plumes of smoke up into the sky. Merlin could make out the moon from here, full and heavy, and felt far too exposed--but there weren’t any couples rutting nearby, no figures in the shadows Merlin could see, so he crept closer to the fire, and knelt.
Heat lashed against his face and sweat began to bead on his upper lip, at the corners of his eyes. The mask felt cool against his flushed skin, and he traced it with nervous fingers, the dips and ridges and curves, and wondered--fire. Would fire be enough?
He knew only the one spell and it was a weak one, meant to strike against wood and dry, dead foliage to set it ablaze. But if he could direct it somehow, turn it on the mask and give it a purpose, it might--it might--
“Forbearnan,” he whispered, but the word was clumsy on his tongue, stuttered and uneasy. He wiped at his eyes and swallowed down his nerves; opened his mouth to try again and got as far as, “forbear--” before a twig snapped, sudden and loud, and he was scrambling back, dirt caught under his nails and heart pounding.
Beyond the fire stood a man, broad-shouldered and golden-haired, but all Merlin could see was the dragon that looked back at him. It was different from his, wider and thicker and more unrestrained--its scales a terrible, violent red, same as the colour of the man’s mouth. The fire made his eyes flicker, made sweat gleam in the hollow of his throat, and Merlin didn’t know how long they stared at each other, still and silent and barely breathing.
It could have been seconds or hours, the space between one blink and the next or the passage of the night, but when the man moved it was like he’d never been still at all. One moment Merlin was cataloguing the shallow rise and fall of the man’s chest and the next he was a blur, faster than Merlin could have ever expected, and a hand glanced Merlin’s shoulder even as he got his feet under him and started to sprint.
He ran without thought, with the single-minded urgency of someone who knew they were only one step ahead and one slip, one stumble, would get them caught. His shoulders knocked into trees and arms were clawed at by the shrubbery and he didn’t care, because the man was right there, so close Merlin thought he could feel hot breath at the back of his neck and fingers grasping for the edge of his robe. He ran until his lungs burned and eyes began to water, pushing himself despite the vicious cramp in his side and his throbbing feet, but the man didn’t slow, didn’t even seem to tire, and the steady thumpthumpthump of his feet hitting the ground made Merlin look back over his shoulder and shout, frantic,
“Would you stop--stop chasing me!”
He didn’t expect a response, didn’t even think on it beyond an instant of frustration, so the snarled,
“Then stop running,”
had him tripping over himself, foot slipping against mulch and root, hands scrabbling at whatever he could reach for purchase. He found nothing and began to fall, would’ve hit the ground hard if a hand hadn’t caught him by the arm and yanked him up and forward and right against the man’s chest. Merlin could feel his heart beating, wild and erratic, and he couldn’t say what it did to him--didn’t even know--but his mind wiped clear of all thoughts but no, and not that easily.
Magic rose up in him like a wave, the way he’d always tried to prevent, careful, careful, can’t let anyone know, but he couldn’t stop it now, or didn’t want to--and it tore its way out, made the ground go shaky beneath his feet and the wind shriek through the trees and lash against them, leaves and dirt caught in a whirlwind and rising--rising--rising--
--but the man only tightened his grip, nothing frightened about him; growled ”settle,” and kissed Merlin, hard.
His mouth was a wet, forceful slant against Merlin’s, breath searing the sensitive skin of his upper lip; Merlin opened at the slick prod of a tongue, let it tangle with his own, and gasped at the feel. The kiss was clumsy and fierce and felt better than it had any right to, sank straight into Merlin and lit him up from the inside. The man curled a hand in his hair and smiled against Merlin’s mouth.
Merlin bit him and set fire to the dry leaves beneath their feet.
“Fuck!” He jumped back, but took Merlin with him, arm like a steel band around his waist. The fire leapt and Merlin kicked at him, connected with what felt like a shin, and the man cursed again.
“Enough,” he snarled in Merlin’s face, teeth gleaming, “stop fighting me, it’s done. You have nothing to prove. I’ve already chosen you.”
“What--” Merlin started, fire and wind dying down as confusion eclipsed panic. “What does that mean, I don’t--I don’t want to be chosen! Let go of me!” He squirmed out of his grip when it loosened, stepped away and put some distance between them, breath still coming in thin, ragged gasps. His entire body was buzzing with adrenaline and he was--he was hard, damn it, and all he’d wanted was-- “I just want to get this bloody mask off!”
The dragon’s face was set in a permanent snarl, but the man’s mouth was parted and he carried an air of bewilderment about him, watching as Merlin struggled with his mask, frustrated and ineffectual, slumping with defeat. “It won’t come off.”
“It’s spelled,” the man said, slowly, as if Merlin might not understand him otherwise, “to be removed at the hands of your hunter.”
“That’s--absolutely daft,” Merlin said, disbelieving, and the man bristled. He was close enough to smell now, something spicy that had Merlin’s gut clenching in reaction. It was almost familiar, tangled with sweat and smoke. Merlin held his breath.
“It’s tradition,” the man said stiffly. “Yours is bound to me, and mine to you.”
Merlin lifted his chin. “Do it, then. Take it off.”
He didn’t move, mouth twisting into an irritated moue. “They’re meant to stay on until after we’ve sated ourselves,” he began, but Merlin had heard enough and didn’t bother letting him finish--just lunged forward and grasped his mask, the edge smooth and warm against his skin, giving easily at the slightest pressure. He pulled it off and promptly choked at who it revealed.
“You,” he managed, and his knight’s face went tight around the mouth and eyes.
“Me,” he said, lips curling into an angry little smile. “Changed your mind about being chosen now, have you?”
Part 2
Recipient:
vissyAuthor:
novemberliteRating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 12,200
Warnings: knotting, rimming, rough sex
Summary: “Those Pendragons, they’re a different sort. Beastly, but clever. It’s said they’re drawn to magic--to power--and that’s how they find their... mate.”
Author's Notes: Thanks to B and M for their help and enthusiasm.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
They arrived two days before Beltane, and turned everything on its head.
The forest shook under their assault and began to bleed the colours of Camelot: red and gold everywhere Merlin went, laughter and the beat of weary hooves ringing in his ears. There were dozens of them, and they came armed and armored, setting up their tents and rousing their fires; fighting among themselves with swords and sticks and being so bloody loud, Merlin thought he’d go mad with it.
He said as much to his mother, curled up on his pallet and face buried in the pillow, trying to drown out the noise. “If they’re here to make peace, why’d they bring an army?”
Hunith didn’t look up from her work, grinding herbs with a steady hand. “You expected the Crown Prince to come alone?”
Merlin hadn’t expected them to come at all. He’d been hearing whispers for months--what little snippets of conversation the druids didn’t bother to censor in the presence of a servant and the juicier bits he picked up from eavesdropping--and they’d all carried an undercurrent of uncertainty. Uther Pendragon was a volatile man and couldn’t be trusted, but what this treaty would mean for the People was too great to ignore.
There hadn’t been blood shed in years but the threat of it hovered, and the People were tired of living like fugitives on their own land. Binding one of their own to the Crown meant more than freedom; it meant protection, and if for that they had to suffer Uther’s demands--if they had to suffer the Hunt--they would with a smile.
“They look like they’re going to war,” Merlin said, remembering glinting metal and the unsettled shuffle of horses. “Do you suppose they’re afraid of us?”
“No,” Hunith said, working the pestle in tense circles. “They’re not afraid. And there is no ‘us’. This is between Camelot and the People. We’re neither here nor there. It’s none of our concern, and you’d do well to keep away from all this.” She wiped her brow with the back of a hand and fixed Merlin with a knowing stare.
Merlin pulled a blanket over his head. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Yet,” Hunith said, and Merlin didn’t have to see the stern, disapproving set of her mouth to know it was there. “Keep busy, Merlin, and not with gossip. This is only a matter of days. Beltane will pass, these men will leave, and everything will go back to how it used to be.”
The sullen ache in his stomach disagreed. Merlin ignored it, rolled over, and tried to sleep.
---
“They’re animals,” someone was saying, voice thick with disgust, “and they stink like it, too.”
Laughter, high and feminine. “A bath would take care of that. Some of them are quite comely, you know. The Prince--”
“Oh, yes, tell us about the Prince. Nimueh’s dying to know--”
“Be quiet.”
“The Prince? He’s tall and strong and has a dog’s--” A muffled shriek, and then peals of laughter, interspersed with “don’t say it, don’t say it!” and “oh, Goddess, I can’t imagine--”
“You’re disgusting, the lot of you.”
“You’d best start getting used to it,” someone taunted. “You’ll have to do more than hear about it soon enough.”
“You’ll have to touch it, Ni-mu-eh,” came another voice, delighted. ”You’ll have to put it in your--”
“Merlin?”
Merlin jumped a clear foot into the air, hand clutching his chest and heart leaping into his throat. He nearly tripped over his own feet and into the tent, but caught himself in time and turned to see Freya watching him, eyebrows raised.
“Freya,” he sputtered. “I didn’t, um, I didn’t see you. I was just,” he waved a hand around and hoped she took it to mean anything other than, listening in because I was bored and curious.
“Eavesdropping,” Freya concluded, and Merlin slumped. She smiled and pulled him away from the tent. “Come on, they’ll have your head if they catch you. What was so interesting that you’d risk Nimueh’s wrath? You know she doesn’t like you.”
“She doesn’t like anyone,” Merlin said, glancing back at the tent. Nimueh was on her way to becoming a High Priestess, and easily the most proficient from her group. Merlin supposed she wasn’t arrogant so much as she was well-aware of her place in her world: head and shoulders above the rest of them.
“I won’t argue that,” Freya said, “but stay out of her way, just the same. She’s in a mood.”
“Because of the--ah, the Prince?”
Freya looked at him and Merlin looked back, the picture of nonchalance. “In part,” she said slowly. “What do you know about that, Merlin?”
“Beyond what I heard just now? Nothing.” He grinned sheepishly. “Won’t you tell me? That way I don’t have to go back and hover outside their tent, pretending to look busy.”
“You didn’t look busy,” Freya pointed out, “just very suspicious.”
Merlin threw his hands in the air. “Well, there you go. Help me, Freya. Save me from myself.”
“Your inability to mind your own business is going to get you into a lot of trouble one day,” she warned, but grasped his hand anyway, and led him away from the camp and deeper into the woods, where the trees grew touching each other, roots broad and tangled beneath their feet. It was the birth of summer, but the air was cool and damp under the cover of leaves. A stream gurgled nearby, one that would soon run dry, and they headed toward it instinctively, tripping each other through brush and thorn.
Freya didn’t speak until she’d found a dry place to perch, her small feet dangling in the stream and toes curling from the cold.
“I don’t know much,” she said, resting her chin in her hands, “only what Sophia’s told me, and you know how reliable she is. It’s just talk, but everyone’s talking. They say he’s going to choose her. Nimueh. For his bride.”
“But,” Merlin said, startled. “How do they know? The Hunt--”
“They’re saying it’s all been set up--that she’s told him what mask she’ll wear. That they’ll hold the Hunt for the sake of tradition, but he’s already decided who to wed.” Freya pulled her knees up to her chest. “I don’t believe it. She wasn’t at the procession--she doesn’t even know what he looks like. When would they have met? It doesn’t make sense.
“It’s more likely that he’ll just--know. Those Pendragons, they’re a different sort. Beastly,” Freya shuddered, “but clever. It’s said they’re drawn to magic--to power--and that’s how they find their... mate.” She looked over to him and wrinkled her nose. “Mate. Like animals.”
Freya flushed, and then laughed. “That’s how they do it, too. They tie, like dogs.” Merlin blanched and she laughed harder. “Merlin, the look on your face.”
“You’re making that up,” Merlin said sternly, but what he’d overheard was starting to make sense. He tried to picture it, and couldn’t; the tips of his ears were burning up and Freya was shaking her head, breathless from amusement.
“I swear,” she said, “he--the Prince--he’ll do it right then. Once he catches her.” She wiped at her eyes and gave him a wry look. “Now you know why Nimueh isn’t the happiest she’s ever been.”
Merlin felt a little queasy. “Does she have to? Doesn’t she get to choose?”
“Of course she does,” Freya said, surprised. “But there’s no question, really. Who wouldn’t want to be Queen?”
“Princess,” Merlin corrected, but Freya shook her head.
“Queen. Uther’s declining health must be the worst kept secret in the realm. That’s why they’ve come now--Uther is a bloody tyrant, but he wants his son to keep the higher ground.”
“They’re using us,” Merlin murmured. “They want to hold us over Cenred.”
“It was either be used by Camelot or be used by Escetia. The Elders--well, Aglain. He Saw something that helped him make a decision.”
Merlin leaned forward, eyes bright. He could loiter around the priestesses’ tents and warlocks’ quarters as much as he wanted, but there wasn’t any need for a serving boy to be present when the elders gathered. When it came to them, whatever he heard was hearsay’s hearsay, and the thought of this new, otherwise inaccessible insight made his stomach flip. “What?”
Freya shrugged. “No one knows. Not even Nimueh.”
He couldn’t keep the disappointment from showing on his face, and Freya shook her head at him fondly when he asked, “Nothing? Not even a rumour?”
“That is the rumour,” Freya said, wry. She got up and stretched before stepping off her rock. “Satisfy your blasted curiosity with that, because it’s all I know.”
Satisfaction, Merlin thought as he followed her back into the forest, was a ways off. Questions swirled in his mind like a storm: he’d seen the men from afar when they’d arrived, red capes and tired horses and all, but missed the Prince’s welcome. Merlin hadn’t cared--didn’t think there would be anything beyond his title to set him apart from the rest of Camelot’s men--but now, he wondered.
Freya had called him beastly, and the image Merlin’s mind conjured up was of a hulking, bearded man, with wild hair and large, coarse hands, more warlord than prince. Picturing him against Nimueh’s slight frame made Merlin shudder, his gut twisting in sympathy.
“Merlin!”
Freya’s call rang in the dense space between trees and jostled Merlin from his thoughts. He couldn’t see her; she’d kept moving while he loitered, and the edge of impatience in her voice told him she wasn’t about to slow down. The air was colder now, and the day was beginning to die. Merlin had kept her longer than he’d thought, and he was opening his mouth to reply when something--shifted.
He didn’t know how he knew to stop, and go still. It wasn’t something seen or heard, no shadow in the corner of his eye or the rustle of leaves, but a pull in the middle of his chest, a compulsion, a command that seemed to rise from the earth and dig into his bones. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, not by far, and he’d never been able to explain it--didn’t even know what to call it--but he knew better than to think he could ignore it. He halted with his foot braced against a fallen log and held his breath, waiting for whatever it was that wanted him here.
It took him a moment to realize he was staring right at it.
The stag was massive, even half hidden in the brush, and the antlers crowning his head were thick and long. He breathed easy, unimpressed by Merlin’s presence; blinked once slowly in his direction before bending to graze, nosing through the mulch on the forest floor. A ray of sunlight cut through the trees and fell like a target on his flank, and--target, Merlin thought, target, and he looked beyond the stag and had his heart rise up in his throat, eyes fixed for a horrified second on the glint of a crossbow.
“Don’t!”
His shout had everything lurching violently into motion. The stag reared, hooves kicking a spray of leaves and dirt into the air, and the crossbow fired with a sudden twang, burying an arrow inches away from Merlin’s foot. Man and beast clamoured, filling the copse with noise, and by the time Merlin could bring himself to move, the stag had vanished and in front of him stood a gaggle of men, looking as startled as he felt.
“What the fuck,” one snarled, “do you think you’re doing?”
All right, Merlin thought, perhaps less startled and more angry. He backed away on instinct and caught his foot against the log, flailed ineffectually and toppled. The earth was damp beneath his palms and the man looked even angrier from the ground, all broad, tense shoulders and scowling mouth.
“I should be asking you that,” Merlin managed, because even dressed as they were, in dark, dirty clothes, these were Camelot’s men, and they didn’t belong in the forest. “You can’t be here.” And then, because he couldn’t stop himself: “The Hunt isn’t until tomorrow.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, raking his eyes over Merlin and sounding anything but, “I didn’t realize this was your land. It’s just, you look so much like a serving boy, I became confused.”
Merlin flushed and pushed himself to his feet, wobbling only a little before he regained his balance. “It might not be my land, but it isn’t yours, either.”
“It will be soon enough,” someone said from the back, and the men snickered, their faces relaxing into sneers. Only the man in front seemed unamused, face dark and eyes boring right into Merlin’s. He shouldn’t have looked imposing now that Merlin wasn’t lying on the ground, but something about him had Merlin’s palms clammy and insides tied into knots. He had the look of a noble and the air of a fighter--a knight, then, but that didn’t mean he had any sort of hold over Merlin.
So he raised his chin and said: “That’s for tomorrow to decide. Today you’re guests of the People, and you’d best behave that way.”
“Boy--” came a snarl from the cluster of men, but the one who held Merlin’s gaze raised a hand and they fell silent, faces twisted with anger. Merlin didn’t care, barely noticed, attention fixed on the man--the knight--as he stepped forward, walked right up to Merlin until they were only inches apart. This close, Merlin could smell him, cloves and leather and sweat, the faint edge of metal and horse; could make out the furrow between his brows, the startling blue of his eyes. The knight’s nostrils flared as he took in a quick, sharp breath, and then he looked--speculative. Calculating.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice low, and it wasn’t a challenge, too curious to be a taunt. Merlin’s mouth went dry, the click of his throat audible when he swallowed.
“A servant,” Merlin said, because he was, and because the man couldn’t be asking him for his name. “You--you weren’t mistaken.”
The man frowned. “No,” he said, “you’re--what are you?” and Merlin reeled, because what did that mean? What did--
“Merlin! Merlin!”
Freya’s voice cut through the copse, loud and flustered. The man jerked back like he’d been burned, and Merlin took his chance and ran, leaving them to shout among themselves. He tripped through the forest, face burning and heart pounding, and found Freya not so far from where he’d stopped, hands on her hips and looking impatient.
“There you are,” she said as Merlin came up to her, and he nodded in breathless agreement. “Stop dawdling, would you, we still have work to--are you all right?” She frowned in concern. “You look flushed.”
“No,” Merlin said, and then, “yes, yes, I met--I saw a stag.”
Freya rolled her eyes, but her smile was pleased. “You’re already the luckiest person I know, getting into and out of trouble like you do. You don’t need any more.” She looked up at the darkening sky and sighed. “But if we tarry too long we’ll both be out of luck.”
The dying light of the sun made everything bright and hazy and too much; Merlin felt eager and weak and thrilled and frightened and all sorts of contradictory things. He shook his head free of stray thoughts and forced himself to look at Freya and see her instead of curious blue eyes.
“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry. Let’s go.”
They went.
---
He dreamt that night, in weak, disorienting pulses. He was in the forest, in the stream, underwater. Leaves crackled under his feet and smoke stung his eyes; there was water in his nose and mouth and it tasted deceptively sweet, like the skin of a berry before he crushed it with his teeth. Juice streaked down his chin, sour and sticky and red, and someone was licking him clean, tongue catching at the corner of his mouth. There were hands tangled in his hair and a body pressed against his own, tree at his back and palms scraping on bark, or teeth, someone’s mouth on his wrist, sucking bruises. Flushed red and purple and blue, blue eyes, the water still and quiet and deep, deeper, he sank.
Merlin woke up breathless and hard and trying to forget the man’s face.
He didn’t manage it, no matter how busy he got: running from one tent to the next, fetching this and delivering that, that curious look still caught in his mind. He was clumsier than usual, preoccupied and prone to drifting away, and he got cursed at by nearly everyone he ran into, even his mother.
“Merlin, please,” she said, more tired than angry, now. She’d yelled herself hoarse in the morning and seemed to lose more of her ire as the day wore on. “If you can’t be of use, stay out of the way.”
There was a streak of oil on her cheek and she smelled like almonds and exasperation. Merlin clasped his hands and rocked back on his heels, thrumming with nervous energy.
“I can help,” he insisted, because the last thing he wanted to do was sit around and think. It was madness outside: people bustling from one end of the encampment to the other, laden with food and drinks and wood for the bonfires they’d light at dusk. Everyone was anxious for the Hunt, waiting impatiently for the sun’s descent; even the ones who weren’t going to have any part in it couldn’t stop talking about it, all coarse, vulgar speculation and taunts that Merlin knew half sprang from a place of envy.
There wouldn’t be more than two dozen taking part, though coupled with Camelot’s men, that meant they’d run the forest down. The knights had little reason not to join in, and Merlin twitched at the thought, wondered if that man--if the knight from the forest--
“Merlin. You aren’t even listening.” Hunith’s mouth was pursed tight, and went tighter when Merlin blinked at her owlishly.
“No--what? I am. You want me to take that--” he gestured at the vial she gripped in her hand, “to--someone.”
She sighed and rubbed at her temples, looking harried. “Never mind. I’ll take it myself.”
“No, mum--” Merlin grabbed the vial and managed not to slosh anything out. “I can do it, I swear.”
He widened his eyes, earnest, until Hunith sighed again and said, “It’s for Nimueh. Go quickly--she needs to drink it now. And be careful, Merlin, you can’t imagine how important that is--”
“I will be,” Merlin said, when she started to look unsure about having him handle it. The vial was warm in his hand, and filled with a rich red liquid, thick and potent from the smell of it: almonds, again. “What is it?”
“None of your concern,” Hunith said sternly, snapping the sheets on his cot. “You’re to leave it in her tent and that’s all. Don’t poke around and for heaven’s sake, Merlin, don’t ask any questions.”
Merlin rolled his eyes and ducked outside. It wasn’t as if Nimueh would even notice his presence, much less answer any of his questions, but Hunith had been nurturing a wealth of paranoia for long enough that it was second nature. She wanted him safe, and that meant making him invisible--no matter how badly Merlin wanted to be seen. He weaved through the thinning crowd, fingers tight around the vial’s neck and trying not to remember how it’d felt in the forest, to have those eyes on him.
The powerful smell of incense coming from Nimueh’s tent made that easy enough. He coughed, then sneezed, eyes watering, as he pulled aside the flap and stepped inside, straight into thick clouds of smoke.
“Who is it?”
Merlin blinked his eyes clear at Nimueh’s sharp voice, and tried to hold his breath. “Me,” he choked out, and then realized that meant nothing to her. “Merlin, it’s Merlin.”
Nimueh hissed a spell and the smoke cleared, condensing into a tiny whirlwind and hovering over the palm of her hand. She closed her fist and it vanished. Merlin was left staring at her dark eyes and scowling, unpainted mouth. “What do you want?”
He fumbled with the vial, trying not to be obvious about looking around. He didn’t often get a chance to run errands for Nimueh--she had a maidservant who took care of that--and he didn’t know if he’d ever get another one. At first glance it didn’t look very different from the tents of the other druids; less parchment and more charms, perhaps, but sparser than he’d expected. There were jars lining the shelves and scattered about were the sort of artifacts Merlin would kill to get a proper look at: worn engravings and old staffs, rings and things that spit magic into the air. He could feel it collecting on his skin and shivered.
Nimueh made an impatient noise and he jerked, coming back to himself. “I’m, uh. I’m to give you this.”
She took the vial he handed her with barely concealed distaste, and put it on the desk behind her. It was already cluttered with things--herbs and powders and a chalice that was still blurting wisps of smoke, and something behind it that he couldn’t quite make out. He moved closer and Nimueh stepped to the side, blocking him with her body.
“Is that all?”
“Um,” Merlin stalled. “You’re supposed to drink that right away.” He stepped around her and closer to the desk, grabbing the vial and holding it up with what was hopefully an unassuming grin. “While it’s still warm,” he said, like he knew what he was talking about, and cut his eyes to the side. What he saw made him gape, and say, despite himself and all common sense: “That--is that the mask?”
He looked up, expecting to see Nimueh’s scowl, but her face was wiped clean of expression. “Yes,” she said. “Ugly, isn’t it?”
It was an old, blotchy red swatch of fabric with two crude, eye-shaped holes and a dirty string that tied one end to the other. Merlin didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this; Camelot was known for its opulence and craft, and this looked like it’d been made by an unskilled toddler. It looked like something Merlin would make.
“It’s...” he started, and struggled to find the right word. ‘Ugly’ wasn’t doing it enough justice.
The sound of Nimueh’s laugh startled him into looking up. She was smiling, and the hair on the back of Merlin’s neck prickled.
“Don’t be fooled,” she said, reaching around him to take it. “It changes once it’s worn.”
“Into what?”
“Whatever suits you best.” She shrugged, long fingers running along the frayed cloth. There was something speculative in the way she eyed him. “Yours would be a mouse. Perhaps a hare,” she said. “Always underfoot, but--harmless.”
Merlin flushed, but didn’t look away. “And yours?”
“A bird of prey.” Her smile didn’t falter as she held out the mask. “Let’s see it, then.”
It felt coarse against his skin, and covered his face from forehead to nose--left his mouth bare and smelled like something old and violent. Primal. The string cinched behind the back of his head and Nimueh began to speak, slick sounding words in a language Merlin ached to learn, voice edged with excitement. Her breath hitched partway through and something like shock lined her face, but Merlin was too busy feeling to care--there were tendrils of magic digging their way under his skin, into his bones, and a queer pressure behind his eyes that made them clench shut. He didn’t realize he was panting until Nimueh fell silent and his laboured breathing was all he could hear.
When he opened his eyes, he found her looking like she’d never seen him before.
“Well,” she said softly, “aren’t you full of surprises,” and turned him to face his reflection.
The first thing he saw was gold instead of blue. Panic clawed at his throat; his eyes only changed when he messed up and did magic, and he hadn’t--had he?--but he couldn’t force them back no matter how hard he tried. The markings on the rest of his face didn’t make any sense, these thick, bold lines that made him look alien and new. He blinked once, frantic, and it was as if the mirror cleared to let him see, and he saw--he saw--
“Dragon,” he said, hushed, “it’s a--” dragon, bright and fiercely scaled, and Merlin’s eyes didn’t look out of place at all. The mask was warm when he reached up to touch, buzzing like his skin was, and Merlin was riding out a shiver when the signal sounded, a horn blown loud and long.
He whirled to find Nimueh watching him.
“It’s time,” she said, and Merlin nodded, heart still beating too fast in his chest. They were beyond dusk now, and well into the night; he could hear the horn blow again, more urgent this time, and reached up to tug on the mask.
It didn’t budge.
“What--” he managed, and pulled at the edges, at the string, clawed at it, but it was like trying to peel off his skin, like it was in him. “It’s not coming off--Nimueh, it’s not--”
“Well, why would it? The Hunt’s only just begun.” She slipped into a robe, and pursed her lips at Merlin’s stricken face. “Did I forget to mention that? How careless of me. You wear the mask and you’re a part of it, Merlin. You’re in for a wild night.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Merlin said, heart lurching into his throat. “It’s yours, you’re meant to wear it--you’re going to be Queen!”
Nimueh hissed and pulled the hood over her head so Merlin could see nothing more than the bitter curve of her mouth. “I don’t need any man to rule,” she said, “much less a Pendragon.”
Merlin shook his head, fingers going still against the mask as he struggled to understand. You had a choice, he wanted to accuse, but the mutinous set of Nimueh’s jaw made him wonder if that was true. So he said, instead,
“Why me?”
“Because I like you, Merlin,” she said, dry. “And this way, we both win. I get out, and you--well, you get tupped by a knight.” Her mouth quirked. “Don’t worry, I hear they’re quite good at this kind of thing.”
“The Elders will be furious,” Merlin tried, panic squeezing his throat and cutting off his air. “This isn’t a game, it’s a--it’s a treaty. If you leave, you’ll never get to come back.”
Nimueh tilted her head back so he could see the glint of her eyes. “You have bigger things to worry about. Don’t think you can hole up in here; they’ll find you wherever you are.” She stepped close and gripped his arm with one hand, touched the mask with the other. “This is a little bit magic, you know.”
“Take it off,” Merlin whispered, and she shook her head.
“I can’t do that,” she said. “But I can give you some advice.”
Her eyes flashed gold and he felt the force of her magic hit him right in the chest, sending him flying through the air and landing outside, cold earth under his palms and all the breath knocked out of him. Nimueh stepped out and over him, heading for the fields beyond their camp, and when she looked back at him once, it was only to say,
“Run.”
---
He ran.
His first thought had been his mother: she’d be furious, but more than that, she’d be worried. He’d cut halfway through the camp and to her when someone caught him--a man in red, with the face of a grinning bear, who had grabbed Merlin’s arm for a split second before getting kicked between the legs. It was more panic and instinct than anything else, but the man’s mouth had twisted into a painful, betrayed o as he sank to the ground, and as Merlin had turned to run, he’d shouted, “If you don’t want to play, then bloody well get out of our way!”
Merlin winced and headed for the forest. If the mask was magic, then it would take magic to destroy it; what few spells Merlin had picked up from the druids would probably be useless, but he had to try. The dense cover of the forest would provide more protection than the campground, and if he could just get the bloody thing off, no one would have to know what mess he’d gotten himself into this time.
The forest should have been pitch black this time of night, but he found it lit up instead, with bonfires at a distance and little sparks circling the trees; enough to see, if not very well. There was a cacophony of noise: the squalling of angry birds and skittering of creatures across the forest floor, the heavy footfalls of men and rustling of robes.
A sudden, high-pitched scream.
He startled, and turned towards it, taking off on instinct and the irrepressible urge to help, but then there was laughter, and a woman’s voice, excited, between short grunts. As he neared he could make out words among the moans, though they weren’t ones he particularly wanted to hear: yes, and Gods, more-- and--
There was someone moving beyond the trees. No, more than one--two, three--too many to count, and they were coming closer, long-legged gait eating up the distance in a matter of seconds. They were all dressed in red, Camelot’s men, and tall of build; Merlin stayed long enough to see a serpent, a boar, a crow, their mouths twisted in identical sneers, before turning tail and running in the opposite direction.
They gave chase, but not for very long, falling back just as Merlin was starting to become short of breath. He supposed they were more interested in the ones for which this really was a game--the ones who’d make a show of slowing down and scream in delight when they were caught--instead of Merlin, who was running like his life depended on it. His feet were aching by the time he found a place to rest, and even then it wasn’t ideal: a clearing with a bonfire glowing hot in the center, sending plumes of smoke up into the sky. Merlin could make out the moon from here, full and heavy, and felt far too exposed--but there weren’t any couples rutting nearby, no figures in the shadows Merlin could see, so he crept closer to the fire, and knelt.
Heat lashed against his face and sweat began to bead on his upper lip, at the corners of his eyes. The mask felt cool against his flushed skin, and he traced it with nervous fingers, the dips and ridges and curves, and wondered--fire. Would fire be enough?
He knew only the one spell and it was a weak one, meant to strike against wood and dry, dead foliage to set it ablaze. But if he could direct it somehow, turn it on the mask and give it a purpose, it might--it might--
“Forbearnan,” he whispered, but the word was clumsy on his tongue, stuttered and uneasy. He wiped at his eyes and swallowed down his nerves; opened his mouth to try again and got as far as, “forbear--” before a twig snapped, sudden and loud, and he was scrambling back, dirt caught under his nails and heart pounding.
Beyond the fire stood a man, broad-shouldered and golden-haired, but all Merlin could see was the dragon that looked back at him. It was different from his, wider and thicker and more unrestrained--its scales a terrible, violent red, same as the colour of the man’s mouth. The fire made his eyes flicker, made sweat gleam in the hollow of his throat, and Merlin didn’t know how long they stared at each other, still and silent and barely breathing.
It could have been seconds or hours, the space between one blink and the next or the passage of the night, but when the man moved it was like he’d never been still at all. One moment Merlin was cataloguing the shallow rise and fall of the man’s chest and the next he was a blur, faster than Merlin could have ever expected, and a hand glanced Merlin’s shoulder even as he got his feet under him and started to sprint.
He ran without thought, with the single-minded urgency of someone who knew they were only one step ahead and one slip, one stumble, would get them caught. His shoulders knocked into trees and arms were clawed at by the shrubbery and he didn’t care, because the man was right there, so close Merlin thought he could feel hot breath at the back of his neck and fingers grasping for the edge of his robe. He ran until his lungs burned and eyes began to water, pushing himself despite the vicious cramp in his side and his throbbing feet, but the man didn’t slow, didn’t even seem to tire, and the steady thumpthumpthump of his feet hitting the ground made Merlin look back over his shoulder and shout, frantic,
“Would you stop--stop chasing me!”
He didn’t expect a response, didn’t even think on it beyond an instant of frustration, so the snarled,
“Then stop running,”
had him tripping over himself, foot slipping against mulch and root, hands scrabbling at whatever he could reach for purchase. He found nothing and began to fall, would’ve hit the ground hard if a hand hadn’t caught him by the arm and yanked him up and forward and right against the man’s chest. Merlin could feel his heart beating, wild and erratic, and he couldn’t say what it did to him--didn’t even know--but his mind wiped clear of all thoughts but no, and not that easily.
Magic rose up in him like a wave, the way he’d always tried to prevent, careful, careful, can’t let anyone know, but he couldn’t stop it now, or didn’t want to--and it tore its way out, made the ground go shaky beneath his feet and the wind shriek through the trees and lash against them, leaves and dirt caught in a whirlwind and rising--rising--rising--
--but the man only tightened his grip, nothing frightened about him; growled ”settle,” and kissed Merlin, hard.
His mouth was a wet, forceful slant against Merlin’s, breath searing the sensitive skin of his upper lip; Merlin opened at the slick prod of a tongue, let it tangle with his own, and gasped at the feel. The kiss was clumsy and fierce and felt better than it had any right to, sank straight into Merlin and lit him up from the inside. The man curled a hand in his hair and smiled against Merlin’s mouth.
Merlin bit him and set fire to the dry leaves beneath their feet.
“Fuck!” He jumped back, but took Merlin with him, arm like a steel band around his waist. The fire leapt and Merlin kicked at him, connected with what felt like a shin, and the man cursed again.
“Enough,” he snarled in Merlin’s face, teeth gleaming, “stop fighting me, it’s done. You have nothing to prove. I’ve already chosen you.”
“What--” Merlin started, fire and wind dying down as confusion eclipsed panic. “What does that mean, I don’t--I don’t want to be chosen! Let go of me!” He squirmed out of his grip when it loosened, stepped away and put some distance between them, breath still coming in thin, ragged gasps. His entire body was buzzing with adrenaline and he was--he was hard, damn it, and all he’d wanted was-- “I just want to get this bloody mask off!”
The dragon’s face was set in a permanent snarl, but the man’s mouth was parted and he carried an air of bewilderment about him, watching as Merlin struggled with his mask, frustrated and ineffectual, slumping with defeat. “It won’t come off.”
“It’s spelled,” the man said, slowly, as if Merlin might not understand him otherwise, “to be removed at the hands of your hunter.”
“That’s--absolutely daft,” Merlin said, disbelieving, and the man bristled. He was close enough to smell now, something spicy that had Merlin’s gut clenching in reaction. It was almost familiar, tangled with sweat and smoke. Merlin held his breath.
“It’s tradition,” the man said stiffly. “Yours is bound to me, and mine to you.”
Merlin lifted his chin. “Do it, then. Take it off.”
He didn’t move, mouth twisting into an irritated moue. “They’re meant to stay on until after we’ve sated ourselves,” he began, but Merlin had heard enough and didn’t bother letting him finish--just lunged forward and grasped his mask, the edge smooth and warm against his skin, giving easily at the slightest pressure. He pulled it off and promptly choked at who it revealed.
“You,” he managed, and his knight’s face went tight around the mouth and eyes.
“Me,” he said, lips curling into an angry little smile. “Changed your mind about being chosen now, have you?”
Part 2
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Date: 2012-01-10 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-10 05:42 pm (UTC)